


Pack Animals

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: Deleted Scenes [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode: s01e04 Magic Bullet, Headcanon, Headcanon Accepted, M/M, POV Stiles, Pack Feels, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part Two in the series "Deleted Scenes," a group of vignettes of my headcanons inspired by various Sterek scenes.</p><p>"Pack Animals:" In which Stiles continues to help Derek after saving him from the wolfsbane bullet. Inspired by episode 1.4: Magic Bullet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack Animals

**Author's Note:**

> **I was going to wait a couple days to write this one, but the positive feedback to "Go Home, Stiles" inspired me to write it today. Thanks, lovelies!!

 

**~*~*~*~**

Stiles is still trying calm his heartbeat, racing as it was when Derek shoved that damn saw into his hands, pushing it towards his arm; it somehow sped up even further when Derek passed out, when Stiles thought he was dead. So far Scott hasn’t said anything about the near-hysterical worry in his voice as he crouched over Derek’s lifeless body in those seemingly-endless seconds when the magic was healing him, but to be fair, Scott is a little preoccupied at the moment, given that it's still werewolf hunting season in Beacon Hills.

“How long until you’re back at full strength again?” Scott asks Derek, handing him the extra t-shirt from his lacrosse bag. Derek’s been standing there shirtless for awhile, panting, still recovering from the wolfsbane bullet that just nearly killed him, _that Stiles and Scott totally saved him from, hell yeah_. At first Stiles thought Derek was getting a kick out of continuing to torture him with his bare chest and back, but when Derek kicks his own shirt away from him in a rumpled heap, refusing to touch it, Stiles realizes that putting on a shirt soaked in his wolfsbane-poisoned blood is probably not a great idea, so he forgives Derek his continued bare-chestedness.

As annoyed as he is at himself that he can’t look away and at Derek for being so stupidly hot, he’s even more so when Derek pulls on Scott’s shirt with an angry grunt. Irritating or not, it was a beautiful view and he's sad to see it go. He consoles himself by tracking the way Scott’s too-small white shirt clings to Derek like it’s wet, and really, it’s kind of pointless for him to have put it on at all. He’s considering saying something to that effect when Derek inadvertently saves him from himself by answering Scott’s question.

“A couple of days,” Derek says, leaning heavily back against the wall. They’re still in the exam room at the vet’s office, trying to figure out how one wraps an evening that includes magic bullets and black blood vomit and Stiles almost sawing off Derek’s arm.

“You can’t go home,” Scott says. “The hunters are still looking for you, and if it’s going to take you a couple days to get to full strength, you won’t be able to fight them off if they come. They'll kill you or capture you for sure.”

“I’m aware of that, Scott,” Derek snaps.

“Hey,” Stiles yells. “He’s trying to help you, jerk. Be nice.”

Derek growls at him, and Stiles has the crazy inclination to hiss back like a cat. He doesn’t, barely.

“What are you going to do,” Scott asks, brown puppy eyes widening in a way that Stiles _does not like at all._ It’s Scott’s let’s-help-this-stray-kitten look that usually ends with claws buried in Stiles’ skin.

“I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay then, great. Thanks for the adventure, Derek. Glad you’re not dead, I guess. See ya around,” Stiles says, trying, and failing, to move Scott toward the door. Scott’s eyebrows go up and he just stares at Stiles, not having to say a word to get his meaning across.

“Scott, no. You can’t take him to your house. Your mom will freak out.”

“I know that,” Scott says defensively. “But your dad is pulling a double shift right? He’s on for the next 24 hours.”

“No,” Stiles and Derek say in unison.

“Scott, no,” Stiles repeats. “He’ll kill me in my sleep or something. And what if my dad comes home? How am I going to explain having a sleepover with a guy he arrested for murder a couple of days ago?”

“He won’t come home,” Scott protests. “He never comes home when he’s on shift. Stiles, come on. We didn’t go through all this trouble to save Derek just to leave him alone and weak, unable to defend himself.”

Dammit, Scott has a good point there. He hates it when Scott has a good point. “Your house is perfect,” Scott is continuing. “They’ll never think to look for him at the sheriff’s house.”

“Yeah, because it’s an insanely stupid idea,” Stiles says, but he’s already helping Scott get Derek out the door and back into his Jeep.

**~*~**

His house had a guestroom once, back when his mom was alive. After she died his dad started working more, bringing more work home with him, and slowly the guestroom turned into an extension of the storage closets at the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department.

Which is all to say that Derek has to sleep on the couch, and he doesn’t look happy about it. In fact, he looks downright annoyed, even though Stiles is thoughtful enough to pull pillows and a blanket, _his favorite blanket_ , out of the hall closet for him. Stiles drops them on the couch next to where Derek’s sitting and Derek just glares at them, then up at Stiles as he starts walking out of the living room, eager to get to his own bed. That’s a pretty judgmental look for someone who _literally_ lives in ruins, but Stiles doesn’t share that little observation with Derek. He’s learning to pick his battles.

But Derek is still huffing with annoyance, like he can’t believe he’s been reduced to such dire circumstances, and it pisses Stiles off. He’s been through hell tonight to save Derek, and now he’s risking getting into who knows how much trouble with his dad for harboring a freaking murder suspect in their home. And Derek has the gall to look put out at having to sleep on the couch?

“Look, I’m new this sidekick thing, okay. I haven’t had time to set up my werewolf bed and breakfast yet, so if you could hold off on the disdain while I _continue to help you not die_ , that’d be great.”

Derek narrows his eyes at him, and Stiles is damn proud that he doesn’t look flinch away from his hard stare. He grumbles something under his breath, a growly rumble that to Stiles sounds something like “idiot” and “werewolves are pack animals.”

“Pack animals.” Stiles calls, voice tinged with confusion, because, what the hell?” “Yes, Derek, I know that werewolves are pack animals. That’s why we’re in this shitty situation. Because this alpha, or whatever, wants Scott in his pack. You’re pack animals. Thanks for the update, Hale. Very helpful.”

“God you’re such an _asshole_ ,” Derek says through gritted teeth, and oh hell no.

“Oh, that’s rich coming the werewolf who threatened to rip my throat out while I was saving his damn life,” Stiles snaps, completely and totally done with Derek’s attitude. “If I didn’t think that you’re psycho enough to actually kill me, I’d try to throw your wolfsbaned ass out right now. You should be writing me goddamn love sonnets thanking me for this, not insulting me. Do you know what my dad would do to me if he found you, a _fucking murder suspect_ , on his couch?”

Derek seems completely unimpressed with his rant, not even bothering to look at Stiles while he’s talking. When Stiles stops, Derek’s icy-green eyes finally meet his. “Exonerated,” he says.

“That’s it?” Stiles is nearly shrieking with indignation. Can’t the son of a bitch show a little gratitude? “That’s all you have to say for yourself. Wow, how are _you_ a pack animal? How does _anyone_ , human or werewolf, stand being near you for any length of time without tearing their hair out in rage? You’re absolutely insuffer –”

His second rant is cut off in a huff of surprise when Derek snaps to his feet and grabs Stiles’ wrist, his big hand clammy but still strong as he grips him tight and pulls, sitting back down on the couch and pulling Stiles on top of him. He lands with a graceless thud, just managing to position his legs so he's straddling Derek instead of kneeing of him in the crotch. _Nice save, Stilinksi_ , he thinks.

“Oh yeah,” Derek is huffing against his ear. “You came looking for me the other night…you seemed to like my company just fine then.” He punctuates the last word with a rough thrust of his hips. There’s too much fabric between them for them to really feel each other, but the message is clear.

Holy god, it’s happening again. Stiles was seriously starting to think that it was dream, whatever happened between them at Derek’s house the other night seeming more surreal and inconceivable with each day that passed. But Derek is here now, on his couch, touching him again and talking about it like it actually happened, and it’s happening again and Stiles is turned on and so nervous he think he might throw up.

“Relax,” Derek says, releasing his hold on his wrist and push Stiles away a little, but keeping him on his lap. “I was just trying to get you to shut up. You talk too much.”

“You said that before.”

“And yet you’ve failed to change your ways.” If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d swear there was the tiniest hit of a smile lurking at the corners of Derek’s very pretty mouth, but that can’t be right. Derek doesn’t smile, does he?

“Watch it, Derek. That was almost a joke. You don’t want people thinking you actually have a sense of humor under that epic wall of brooding man-pain you’re rocking so well.”

“You’re the insufferable one, you know.” He says it like he’s trying to sound mean, but it falls flat, almost teasing. The wolfsbane really has him off his game.

Stiles doesn’t point out that _Derek’s_ the one who keeps initiating these rubbing against each other moments that are in danger of becoming _a thing_ that they do. He knows Derek’s in no condition to match his wit, and honestly, where’s the fun in that?

Stiles isn’t standing up, and Derek isn’t trying to make him, even though he’s pulled his hands away from him completely. Stiles just sits there straddling him, watching him as he lets his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes. Derek looks sickly and wan, the purple-red circles under his eyes making him look exhausted and pained. His breathing is still a bit labored, and his forehead is slick with sweat and before he knows what he’s doing, Stiles is raising his arm to lightly place the back of his hand on Derek’s forehead. The gesture is incredibly intimate, but for some reason it doesn’t really surprise him when Derek moans lightly in pleasure. Encouraged and emboldened, Stiles slowly raises his other hand, gentling cupping Derek’s jaw and lightly pressing his fingers into the sharp, stinging stubble there. Derek sighs and relaxes, tension melting out of his shoulders and face softening, making him look heartbreakingly young, and Stiles remembers that Derek isn’t really all that older than him, and, like him, he lost his mother way too soon.

He feels like he’s starting to understand Derek in a way he’s not sure he should. That way lies madness, right?

“You said you were a pack animal,” he says, waiting for Derek’s eyes to open before continuing. “Earlier, before I started yelling at you, you said you were a pack animal. What did you really mean? I mean, I know you weren’t really reminding me of what the alpha wants.”

Derek’s tired eyes flutter down, lashes impossibly dark against his too-pale skin. He almost looks sheepish. “Oh. Forget about that. It’s nothing.”

“Derek. Come on. Tell me.” He gives his hips a small downward thrust, nowhere near as aggressive as Derek had been, but he’s still shocked by his own bravery. At some point along the way since all of this began, Stiles has become reckless, and all he knows is that Derek seems to be a driving force behind it and it scares the hell out of him. But he also really likes it. A lot.

Derek sighs heavily, some of the tension creeping back into his shoulders, like he’s steeling himself for something. His voice is quiet and controlled when he finally speaks. “I was frustrated earlier, because of the pain, and I was…disappointed. Werewolves are pack animals. We…I feel better, heal faster, with pack…with contact.”

Stiles knows Derek’s doing his best, but he’s still leaving some important gaps that he’s going to need spelled out, for his own sanity as much as for getting through this conversation. He stares at Derek, taking in the way he started to relax and settle down when Stiles was touching him, how the pain all but disappeared from his face when Stiles placed his hands on his skin. “Physical contact makes you feel better? Helps you heal faster?” he asks.

“Yes…but…” Derek is doing that sheepish looking down thing again and it’s equal parts infuriating and adorable.

“Derek, come on. Just tell me, okay? I think I proved that I’m willing to help you in any way I can when I nearly cut off your arm tonight to save your wolvlihood. Which, by the way, I will be expecting a formal thank you of some kind for saving your grumpy ass. After you’ve fully recovered, of course.” It’s weak, but Derek rolls his eyes. Oddly, it sends a shudder of relief through Stiles. Derek’s going to be okay. “Tell me what I can do to help you, Derek.”

“Physical contact helps me heal faster, but it doesn’t work with just anyone. It has to be pack.”

“But you don’t have a pack,” Stiles blurts out, because he’s an idiot and an asshole. _Nice work, Stilinski. Remind the fragile and broken man who’s barely beginning to trust you of how his entire family is dead, of how alone he is._ “I mean,” Stiles says awkwardly, hands falling down to rest on Derek’s firm pecs, “you’re not part of a pack. Are you?”

“I didn’t think I was.” Stiles can't read the way he says it, can't decipher if he's disappointed or relieved.

Stiles furrows his brow for a second, head tilting to the side as the pieces fall into place. He’s starting to speak Derek impressively well. “But you started feeling better when I started touching you.”

Derek sighs again. “Yeah.”

“What? Wait. You’re saying I’m in your pack? I didn’t agree to that. What the hell does this mean?”

“I don’t _have_ a pack, Stiles. I’m an omega, a lone wolf. Or so I thought. I don’t have any power over you, other than the usual.” Derek pauses for a second, all of the implications of _the usual_ hanging silently between them. “But I think this means that we _are_ pack. We’re…connected.” He shrugs, resigned, exhaustion starting to overwhelm him.

“We barely know each other,” Stiles half-whispers, his disbelief sounding hollow even to him. He knows Derek’s right. He can feel something, has felt something for him since the moment he laid eyes on him. “I’m human,” Stiles adds weakly. “How is this even possible?”

“You just saved my life. If that’s not pack, then what is?” Derek’s eyes are so open and honest in that moment Stiles has to look away for fear of never being able to recover from what he thinks he sees there.

“Oh.” He swallows hard.

“Yeah.” Derek swallows hard.

They sit in silence again, long enough for Derek to drift off to sleep while Stiles remains on his lap, watching the rise and fall of his chiseled chest in Scott’s t-shirt. He’s not sure what any of this means, but if what Derek says is true, then that means he has the ability to help Derek feel better and heal faster. That knowledge sparks a burst of warmth somewhere under his ribs that he knows he'll have to think about later but chooses not to examine too closely right now.

“Derek,” he says softly, watching his eyes flutter open immediately, his body stiffening with alertness. “Skin-to-skin contact helps with the whole pack healing thing, right?”

“Yes,” Derek says, like he’s not sure he should be telling Stiles this.

“Okay then,” Stiles says, the decision made. He hops up off Derek’s lap and pulls him up by the wrists, a little shocked at how easily Derek lets himself be manhandled. Must be a pack thing. He leads Derek out of the living room, fingers intertwining with his, hand trailing behind his back as Derek follows him. Stiles’ face flushes red with heat when walking up the stairs puts Derek’s face in alarmingly close proximity to his ass. He is _most certainly not_ going to follow that train of thought. Not right now, at least.

He leads Derek into his bedroom and gently pushes him down so he's sitting on the bed. Stiles pulls Derek’s shirt off, making his eyes go up in surprise. “I’m going to let you take care of your shoes and pants,” he tells Derek, “when I’m in the bathroom. For both our sakes', let’s agree to keep our underwear on, okay?”

He turns and walks out of his room before Derek can respond, hoping that he doesn’t see just how red Stiles must be, judging by the heat he feels in his cheeks and chest. He’s glad the only light in his room is the dim yellow glow of a distant streetlight through the window, even though he’s pretty sure the relative darkness doesn’t really affect Derek’s vision all that much. Completely unfair.

In his bathroom, Stiles strips down to his boxer briefs, adding his clothes to a pile already covering most of the floor. He pees, washes his hands and face, and brushes his teeth, avoiding his gaze in the mirror, worried that if he sees how nervous he looks he’ll back out, and he can’t do that. Derek needs his help.

He briefly considers a quick jerk to release some of the tension he knows will only get worse once he goes back into his room, but he’s learned a lot about werewolf senses recently and he knows Derek would hear and probably smell everything, and yeah _no._

He snaps off the bathroom light and heads back this room before he loses his nerve completely. Derek is already sleeping in his bed, covers pulled up to his bare waist, curled in on himself, on his side facing the wall. Stiles pauses at the edge of the bed for a moment, taking in the sight of him, weak and small-looking, bathed in glowing light that makes him seem soft around the edges. Stiles feels as though he’s been given some kind of gift, although he’s not really sure what it is or what it means.

He climbs into bed, scooting as close as he can to Derek without actually touching him yet. He looks down into the center of the tattoo on his exquisite back, and he slowly, very softly, places the tips of his fingers there, asking permission. Derek just kinda huffs and moans, so Stiles moves closer until he’s pressing his chest fully against Derek. He takes special care to keep his back arched just so in order to keep from pressing his dick against Derek’s ass, something just as much for his sake as Derek’s. He’s so not ready for that.

Stiles tentatively places an arm across Derek, forearm fitting neatly into the shallow groove of his waist, his hand settling on the hard curves of his abs. He closes his eyes against the flood of contentment that washes through him at the contact. He’s suddenly very tired too, and Derek is solid and warm against him, and soon he’s relaxing into the touch as much as Derek is.

His face is pressed up against the back of Derek’s neck where the gentle V of his hairline echoes his widow’s peak. Stiles is right on the edge of sleep, something stirring warmly in him, making him want to kiss Derek there.

He falls asleep telling himself all of the reasons why that’s a bad idea.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/


End file.
